


the fire ate your heart, my love (you can't be whole, again)

by oldglory



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Realities, Angst, Civil War, Evil Tony Stark, Gaslighting, Grieving, Loss, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldglory/pseuds/oldglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is in love, and he'll be damned if he lets something as little as <i>death</i> get in his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fire ate your heart, my love (you can't be whole, again)

**Author's Note:**

> My first Avengers fic!
> 
> I'm incorporating elements from both the movie-verse (of which I know a lot more about) and the comics. Hopefully I won't butcher them too much. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve Rogers stares through the two-way mirror, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

 

Fury is muttering next to him, but the words may as well be gibberish, for all he understands them.

 

The tension in the room is thick enough to crumple lesser beings. Clint paces restlessly near the door, his hand straying frequently to his wounded shoulder, while Thor frowns at Fury and Bruce stares at the floor. The clock on the wall ticks, _ticks,_ persistent enough to worm its way into Steve’s pounding skull.

 

Natasha stands next to him, still as death. Her brilliant eyes are pinned also to the man beyond the glass, and it is as though a veil has been cast over her features.

 

“It’s not him,” she says softly, without turning.

 

Steve tries to keep his face blank. The confusion (the _shock_ ) has long given way to a seething frustration; Shield’s finest have been interrogating To --  _the suspect_ for several hours, now, and they have yet to get anything from him that isn’t a cool stare.

 

He rubs his neck, remembering the sting of the needle as it sank into his flesh. The suspect was ruthless in his assault; had Clint, hungover and incoherent, not staggered into the nearest room (which happened to be his), the suspect might actually have succeeded in drugging him.

 

(And then? Steve still can’t say.)

 

As it is, Steve had snapped awake at Clint’s startled cry, managing to yank the needle out before too much of the drug (an extraordinarily strong sedative, the lab technicians informed them) entered his bloodstream. The serum has filtered most of it out by now, and he wants to blame his current unsteadiness on some lingering traces of it. But Steve isn’t in the habit of lying to himself.

 

Because the man beyond the glass -- who had forced a needle in his neck and nearly murdered the rest of his teammates -- looks identical to the colleague whose memorial he attended just last week. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead light, the resemblance is only more uncanny; Steve takes in the suspect’s soft brown hair and compact build, the careless way he sits, clever fingers fiddling idly with the thick cuff binding him to the table. The curve of his nose, the slope of his mouth, the bruises beneath his eyes -- all of it is familiar, each little similarity like a punch to the gut (another match to light the growing fire in his heart, both parts pain and _hope, hope, hope)._

 

Tony Stark is dead. Steve saw him haul that warhead into space, saw the wormhole close behind him. And Tony, however belligerent, would never attack him - would never whisper such strange things against his skin, as this man did, those clever fingers carding through his hair while the sedative flooded his veins.

 

_“Hold still, baby, it’s alright. We’re alright. I’m gonna make everything better, I promise, just relax, relax…”_

 

Steve had been sure he was dreaming, until the sting of the needle registered as a bit too real, and Clint had stumbled upon them.

 

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

A woman in a lab coat has entered the room, Agent Hill trailing behind her. Every eye is focused on them at once; Fury glares expectantly at the woman, who is too busy frowning at her clipboard to feign intimidation.

 

“The test results were all positive,” she informs them, sweeping past Fury to stand next to Steve. Her name is printed on the breast of her coat: _Dr. Boyle,_ it reads.

 

He’s about to question her when he sees how intently she’s studying him, hawkish gaze sweeping him from head to foot with an intensity that puzzles him. Before he can classify her expression, however, the doctor turns away, a frown pinching her features.

 

She leans close to the glass, peering at the suspect, and continues, “We ran them four times, to be sure. DNA, fingerprints...it’s all there, sir. As far as we can tell, he  _is_ Anthony Stark.”

 

Steve’s heart feels ready to burst from his ribs. He and Natasha exchange a look.

 

“And the arc reactor?” she demands.

 

Dr. Boyle consults her clipboard. “It looks as though he’s had surgery on his heart, rendering the reactor unnecessary.”

 

Natasha turns back to the glass. Her eyes are appraising, cold.

 

“Really,” she says.

 

The tension swells, and is reaching an almost painful crescendo when Clint bursts out, “Okay, so it’s Tony.”

 

There is a collective wince from the rest of the Avengers (save Natasha); it’s the first time Tony’s name has been spoken aloud since the memorial.

 

Clint barrels on, “What we really need to be focusing on is the fact he’s clearly lost it.”

 

“Clint - “

 

Bruce’s protest is waved away.

 

“He tried to kidnap Steve and _kill us,_ ” Clint seethes, gesturing sharply at his bandaged shoulder, where the suspect’s repulsor blast nearly vaporized him. The Tony look-alike was dressed in normal -- if pricey -- clothes when Steve awoke, but the band around his wrist was able to summon the Iron Man suit from something called “nanobytes,” as he’d overheard.

 

He doesn’t remember the armor encasing To - _the suspect’s_ hand, so much as the way his face morphed in the moonlight, tenderness evaporating into something cold, _dead,_ as he aimed at the frozen Clint.

 

 _“Killing you would be redundant,”_ he murmured, as Steve was overcome with fog. **_“But.”_**

 

And he fired. Steve still can’t believe it.

 

The tower erupted into chaos soon after. Iron Man was always formidable, but this imposter was ruthless - _brutal_   - in a way that still rattles him, hours later. The suspect had acted with lethal intent towards everyone but _Steve,_ pinning him to his side in a cold embrace before flying out into the night, with the other Avengers in hot pursuit.

 

A whole block was destroyed in the effort to subdue him.

 

“We don’t know what happened,” Bruce is saying. “He could be under the influence of something, or someone. Until we understand what, it’s best to withhold judgement.”

 

“Yes,” Thor says suddenly. He has been unusually subdued since the battle. “Let us be glad for now that our friend has returned to us.”

 

He joins them at the window, bright eyes fixed on the suspect. Something in his face concerns Steve, but before he can ask, Clint grumbles, “Yeah, well. What’s so special about Cap, here? He seemed pretty damn determined to elope with you.”

 

Aware of Fury’s sharp gaze, Steve lifts a shoulder. “Maybe he was after the serum.”

 

The thought stings, but it’s really the only reason he can think of. He and Tony had only just become something like friends before his death; if something twisted in Steve’s gut whenever he saw him, well. That’s no one's business but his. 

 

“Maybe.” Fury’s disbelief is palpable. He swings back to the window, his coat flaring dramatically behind him. Silence reigns while he considers the suspect.

 

“Whatever the reason,” he says finally. “I think we can all agree we have a very volatile situation on our hands. Someone with Stark’s face and fingerprints has the potential to _wreak havoc._ It’s imperative we don’t let...personal biases...cloud our judgement.”

 

His eye flicks to Steve. Steve doesn’t like the look.

 

“What are you saying, Director?”

 

Fury folds his arms behind his back. “As of right now, _Stark_ \- or at least a very good imitation of him - holds all the cards. We need to tip his hand.”

 

“And how do you propose we do that?”

 

Fury blinks at him. .

 

“You seem to be his favorite, captain.”

 

Steve’s brain screeches to a halt. He stares dumbly at Fury, his mouth opening, closing. The man can’t mean what he thinks he means.

 

“You want _me_ to - ?”

 

His eyes snap to the window, where _the suspect_ sits coolly. His mouth goes dry. “I wasn’t trained as an interrogator.”

 

Natasha straightens, but before she can say anything, Fury pins her with a sharp-eyed glance.

 

“He’s been asking for you,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

 

Every eye in the room is pinned to Steve, now; he tries not to shift beneath their attention, but can’t help how his fists curl at his sides. There’s been some mistake, clearly.

 

But when he tries to say as much, Fury’s face only twists with impatience.

 

“Well, we haven’t been able to get a word out of him, otherwise -- so unless you have a better idea, I’m going to have to insist.”

 

Steve barely manages to keep his expression in check. He glances at Natasha, who is studying him with that unnerving x-ray stare.

 

“You should do it,” she says quietly.

 

He turns away from her, his jaw ticking. Stark’s twin is peering in their direction, and Steve _knows_ he can’t see him, but those dark eyes are settled on his own as though _he can_. He freezes, trying to understand the chill shuddering through him, the familiar twist in his gut as Tony stares, his head tilting.

 

And it occurs to Steve, like a light flicking on in the darkness, that Natasha is wrong; he really, _really_ shouldn’t.

 

Tearing his eyes away from Tony’s, he ignores the hammering in his chest and croaks, “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

_Tony Stark is fine._

 

 _He isn’t sure what month it is, only that the days are cold and his hands are raw and the liquor burns burns_ **_burns_ ** _on its way down his throat._

 

_He has a perpetual migraine, these days, and though the pain is blistering --  a thousand sordid needles piercing the soft tissue of his brain -- he is glad for it. There is no hell great enough for the scope of his sins -- and if the agony keeps him up at night, away from the nightmares, then he is more than willing to suffer._

 

 _He takes another swig from the bottle, before returning his attention to his newest (and final) creation. Jarvis has been on mute since - since_ **_After,_ ** _making the overall process more difficult, but Tony doesn’t mind a little difficulty. Not if it means he can be whole, again._

 

_Blue eyes flash in the muddled haze of his thoughts. The screwdriver slips from his grasp. He blinks at where it’s fallen by his foot, at the bloody ruin of his palm. It throbs dully. He must have gotten careless with his tools, again._

 

_Wiping the mess on his ratty shirt, Tony bends to pick up the screwdriver. He resumes his work._

 

_His head is pulsing, and his heart is dead, but soon this will all be over. The fire will consume him, burn the evil from his bones. To hell with the rest of them._

 

_He’s fine._

 

* * *

 

 

Steve can’t help the gulp that works his throat as the steel door slides shut behind him.

 

Tony-not-Tony is staring at him with an intensity that leaves him deeply discomfited, and he is briefly overcome with the urge to step back as the other man dissects him with his eyes.

 

“Steve,” he says, softly. Tony never called him by his name; it was always “Cap,” or “Capsicle,” or some other catty sobriquet that left Steve flustered. And the _way_ he says it --  soft and warm and fervent, like a prayer…

 

Steve is frozen. His gut is _twisting._

 

He _knew_ this was a bad idea, but fleeing isn’t an option -- not with Fury watching, and Tony gazing at him like the sun sprang from his hands.

 

Setting his shoulders, he marches to the chair opposite _the suspect_ and lowers himself into it stiffly. He’s in his uniform, now, and feels more exposed beneath the other man’s stare than he did in the darkness of his bedroom, clad only in a T-shirt and boxers.

 

Clasping his hands, Steve steels himself and starts, “So you know my name. Care to tell me yours?”

 

Something flashes in those deep brown eyes. “You know who I am.”

 

“I don’t think I do,” Steve says. He remembers Clint’s yelp of pain as the repulsor blast caught his shoulder, Natasha’s white-ringed eyes as Tony-not-Tony fired a missile the Hulk only barely saved her from. “The Tony I knew would never make an attempt on the lives of his teammates. He - “

 

Steve’s jaw works for a few tense seconds. “He died a hero. And you disrespect his memory by sitting here - “ _wearing his face_ “ - claiming you’re him. So stop.”

 

In the brief time they knew each other, Steve had memorized every line of Tony’s face: the set to his mouth when he was indignant; the way his brow pinched when he was concentrating; how his eyes grew hooded when he was feeling particularly ruthless.

 

He’s learned them all, every quirk and tell -- but this... _somberness._..is foreign to him.

 

Tony stark was arrogant and playful, belligerent but kind. He did not wear sorrow, as this man does. Grief is written clear in the gaunt lines of his features --   _raw_ in the dark depths of his eyes.

 

Steve looks away almost involuntarily. Something is pulsing in his throat. His hands are gross with sweat, and he doesn’t know why.

 

Tony is still watching him; Steve’s whole face feels hot beneath his stare. It is as though he has been catapulted into the past, where he was small and thin and weak, breath rattling in his damaged lungs. He clenches his fists so hard the leather squeaks. In his peripheral vision, Tony’s head tilts.

 

There is...a strange, charged tension swelling in the short distance between them. He wishes, with sudden ferocity, that he had not agreed to do this. That those eyes would _stop raking him_ with such burning intensity, the kind he has only ever seen directed at inventions.

 

“Steve.” Tony’s voice is very soft. “Look at me.”

 

And Steve can only obey. He meets Tony’s stare, his jaw fluttering, and feels his throat bob as Tony leans into the space between them, his eyes earthen pools.

 

“You know me,” he murmurs, low and intent. “And I know you.”

 

The twisting worsens in his gut. Pain flares behind his temples as Tony -- _Tony_ \-- stares at him, his too-long hair shadowing his gaze. He looks -- worn. Impossibly weary.

 

The words spring from his lips without thought: “What happened to you?”

 

Tony’s eyes close briefly. Something unreadable warps his features. When he opens them again, the pain is naked in his gaze.

 

“Love,” he says, barely audible. “What else?”

 

Steve feels like he’s been punched in the Adam’s apple. He studies the table, wondering why his heart is constricting so awfully, like a phantom hand has reached into his ribs. Tony doesn’t -- _will never_ \-- belong to him. And anyway, this isn’t the time or the place for such thoughts.

 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, a thousand questions blazing on his tongue.

 

_Is it really you? Where have you been? Why did you attack us?_

 

What comes out is: “What do you mean?”

 

And Tony asks, “Do you believe in second chances?”

 

Steve blinks. He is struck with the distinct sense that he is toeing at the precipice of a long, long drop. He thinks carefully about his answer, before nodding, “I do.”

 

A ragged breath escapes the other man.

 

“What if I told you,” he says, “that I...was looking for that second chance? Would you -- “

 

He stops, swallows. His eyes are feverishly bright. “Would you grant it, Steve?”

 

Steve’s mouth parts. This _interrogation_ has quickly spun beyond his control; he’s not sure what’s happening, only that they are on an entirely separate track from where they started. It’s like they’re operating on two completely different wavelengths.

 

Unsettled -- _mystified_ \-- he offers, “Well. I think everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Tony.”

 

 _Now, what is this about?_ he means to ask, but then Tony is looking at him like he’s starlight condensed into human form. His mouth is parted, his eyes shining.

 

“You _would,”_ he croaks. “It’s why --  “

 

His mouth clicks shut. He glares down at the cuffs binding him securely to the table, his lips pursing, and then it’s Steve’s turn to bore holes in his face. Adrenaline is rushing through him; he’s not sure why.

 

“What?” he presses, leaning forward. Something is going on here. The desire to understand what is a striking thing.  “What were you going to say?”

 

“Uncuff me,” Tony says abruptly. He looks back up at Steve with a familiar set to his shoulders, the way he used to when he was particularly intent on getting his way.

 

Steve’s own shoulders stiffen. “I -- that’s  -- “

 

_“-- A firm ‘no,’ Stark.”_

 

Steve jumps at the sound of Fury’s irate voice reverberating around them, his focus snapping to the intercom above their heads.

 

 _“You can clear out, Captain,”_ the Director continues. _“We’ll take it from here. Say goodbye, Stark -- he’s the last friendly face you’ll know for a while.”_

 

Steve is about to wince, when Tony leans forward, again. There is a wild light in his eyes.

 

“Remember what you said,” he whispers. “About redemption.”

 

And then there are _symbols_ blooming on his skin, along the lengths of his arms, his neck, his face. They glow softly beneath Steve’s shocked stare.

 

“Magic?” he croaks, at the same instant the handcuffs dissolve.

 

He can _hear,_ with his heightened senses, the chaos erupting in the other room, but Steve’s mind has drawn a blank. He stares, spellbound, as Tony extends a lithe arm into the space between them, palm up.

 

There is a band around his right wrist. His eyes never leaving Steve’s, Tony unclasps the metal.

 

And Steve -- Steve sucks in a sharp breath, his pulse stuttering, stomach swooping, heart _pounding,_ because -- _because --_

 

That’s _his name_ in _his handwriting_ standing bold  -- **scarred** \-- against the paler flesh of Tony’s wrist. The letters are red and raised, as though carved by the fine point of a blade.

 

A ringing starts in Steve’s head, his gut **_twisting._ ** He can’t seem to tear his eyes away, and is only dimly aware of Tony’s fingers spreading in invitation.

 

“You don’t belong here, Steve,” he says softly. The symbols are blazing against his skin, now. “Let me set things right.”

 

Someone is banging on the door.

 

He thinks he hears Thor, roaring about foolishness and mistakes and his brother, but his voice sounds very far away. The world has narrowed to Tony Stark and his limpid eyes.

“Come home,” Tony says. And, for reasons, he can’t even explain to himself, Steve takes his hand, marvelling at how _right_ the calloused fingers feel in his.

 

The other man’s grin is brilliant, and lost in an eruption of _light._

 

* * *

 

Thor is too late.

 

The Norse god has just caved in the steel door with Mjolnir when they are stopped in their tracks by a blinding light, like the implosion of a star.

 

When it’s died down, the room is empty.

 

With a shout of frustration, Thor brings the hammer down on the table, causing Bruce and Clint to wince as they step through the door, followed by a stony-faced Natasha and a thunderous-looking Fury. Several armed agents loom behind them.

 

“You wanna tell me what the hell just happened?” Fury barks. The tang of magic is still sharp in the air.

 

But Thor has yet to calm. Electricity crackles along his tanned skin, and the others give him a wide berth as he storms around the room, his face twisted with startling rage.

 

“The _audacity!”_ he snarls, at no one. “The _fool!”_

 

“Thor.” Natasha’s voice is quiet, cutting. Thor whips around to face her. “What did Stark do?”

 

He looks away, his huge hand tightening around Mjolnir, like he’s thinking about hurling it at something.

 

“I must speak with my brother,” Thor says.

 

* * *

 

_Far, far away -- in a place beyond time -- Steve Rogers prods the bullet hole above his heart, and sighs._

 


End file.
